Mourning
by CatRocks
Summary: She was staring at him, but he didn't notice. Even if he had it wouldn't have mattered. He wouldn't have known. OneShot REVISED!


Two weeks. That was how long she'd known him. Well, no. That wasn't true. She'd known about him since he moved there in the fourth grade. She'd known his face, even his name. She'd laughed at the time Maureen had taped a "kick me" sign to his back. Now it seemed juvenile and pointless. It wasn't even all that funny, but had let Zach know that he wasn't going to be accepted at Odessa High.

But she hadn't really known anything about him until two weeks ago. He'd been staring at his shoes when he walked into her. The two of them had tumbled down the bleachers a couple steps. Claire had scraped her arm slightly, but her eyes had darted upwards with pure terror in them. He was going to see. He was going to tell. And then everyone would know that she was a freak. Indeed, Zach had watched as the skin layered and closed inhumanly. But he hadn't said anything. Claire ran.. She spent two days avoiding him, waiting to see what he was going to do.

Claire was willing to bet he was going to retaliate for all those times she'd teased him. Every snicker, every rumor, every gay joke. But he hadn't.

Now she could tell you almost anything about him. From his grades to his secret passion for movie making. She knew he had never liked geometry and that his parents were amicably divorced. He'd once broken his arm by running his bike into a parked car on accident. He had an inexplicable love for anything that included white chocolate. He also liked to read Star for laughs and Snoopy comics. And Zach thought that watching her heal was one of the coolest things in the world. Claire smiled slightly at the thought.

Her eyes were drawn across the lunchroom. Zach was there, in his usual seat, picking at some indescribable cafeteria food. He had his MP3 player out. He'd saved for a year before he could buy it.

He didn't look over at her. He had no reason to. As far as he knew, Claire sitting at the cheerleader table was no big deal. She'd gotten back "in" after they realized that she'd been with Jackie when she was killed. She'd lied and told them she hit her head, pretending her memory was gone.

She half wished that it was. She wasn't entirely sure what she was feeling, but it was similar to the time Mo had died. He was one of the only one of her mother's dogs that she had actually liked. But it didn't make sense. Why was she mourning? She put it off as depression over Jackie.

"Oh, my God!" Maureen shrieked as she sat down across from her. Claire dragged her attention back to the table. It was better not to think about it. It was easier too. "Did you hear?"

"Hear what?" Heather asked eagerly.

"The school wants to disband the cheerleading squad." Maureen answered breathlessly.

"What?!" Several thin blondes all asked at once.

"I just talked to the principal, that idiot. She says it's not safe." Maureen continued, but Claire hadn't been listening. The useless, breathy chatter was too loud. And what did it matter anyways? What did standing around watching some dumb guys play football do for the world? She could remember wanting nothing more than to sit in this very seat—surrounded by people. But she didn't remember how it felt to be sitting in that seat, not really. Sure, now she was there but she wasn't paying any attention. Cheerleading didn't matter. Maybe it never had.

At that moment, Claire realized what mattered—and he didn't even know that she cared. And even if he had, it wouldn't have made a difference. To her he was a hero, a best friend. And to him she was a shallow blonde chick.

She stood up with a suddenness that nearly tipped her lunch over. No one seemed to notice. She left her lunch on the table and left, walking quickly. She knew exactly where she was going. Her heels tapped across the tile and, despite the crowd of people laughing and talking, it was the only sound that she heard.

She ran the last few feet into the third floor bathroom. No one ever used it. It was The Nasty Bathroom. One of the stall doors didn't close, none of them locked right, and all the paint was peeling. The sink was more orange than white the rust stains were so terrible. The color had even spread to the edges of the mirror where they accompanied eternal water spots and a small network of fractures. Claire made sure the door was shut behind her before she leaned heavily against the sink. It sank slightly against her weight, but she didn't care. It was the only sanctuary she could find, and so it was absolute perfection.

Tears broke out across her face, the façade of calm and happiness finally released. She couldn't be down there for another second. Not with those people who didn't care. Not with the one person how actually did so close. That was the worst part, she decided, him being close. Because that close he was so immensely, irrevocably, impossibly far away.

The fact that she was mourning still didn't make sense to her. But now at least she knew who it was who was gone.


End file.
